Despite his outward boldness, Henry Cope was troubled, for it began to seem that Riley really meant to press his claim, an action that would be foolish unless he could back it up with proof. The grocer sought Tom Locke, and drew him away from the bench.
The young man listened to Cope’s words, frowning a little, the blood slowly mounting into his cheeks.
“They seem determined to make as much trouble for me as possible,” he said. “I have a feeling that Hutchinson doesn’t like me too much, and there is another individual in town who is doing his prettiest to stir things up. Benton King is the chap I mean. He has sent for a photograph of Paul Hazelton.”
“Has he? Well, what d’ye think o’ that? See here, Bent’s ruther smashed on the parson’s daughter. You ain’t been cuttin’ in on his preserves, have ye?”
“I scarcely know the girl,” answered Locke; but the flush in his cheeks deepened. “Mr. Cope, consider that I’ve been in this town only a few days.”
“I know that, but some o’ you baseball fellers are pretty swift with the gals. They generally git their pick in towns like this, for the gals go smashed on ’em right off. Still, Janet Harting ain’t just that kind; she’s a fine little lady, and she wouldn’t pick up with no stranger in a hurry, whether he played baseball or not.”
“I’d scarcely fancy her foolish or forward. She appears to be a very nice girl, indeed.”
“They don’t grow none better, boy. She’s all right, though her father’d put an everlastin’ end to baseball, if he could have his way. You’re dead sure this man Riley ain’t got nothin’ on ye?”
“I’m practically sure of it. He’s bluffing, Mr. Cope, and he’ll lay down when he finds he can’t drive you.”
There was something in the way this was said, however, that left a vague uneasiness in the grocer’s mind. “Practically sure,” he muttered, as he sat on the bleachers, scarcely paying any attention to the run of the game. “Why ain’t he dead sure? It’s mighty odd that he should be at all onsartin on that p’int.”